It was about 15 years ago. Still, I remember the day we received the phone call. There were two children that needed a home. A brother and a sister. I was too young for my mother to share any details of their problems with me. I assumed their family life was bad. That always seemed to be the case. We had done foster care three times before. There were common themes. Physical abuse at home. Not getting enough to eat. Strange mental abuse. Then there are the unspeakable crimes. Back to the phone call… my parents said “yes. we’ll take them.”
After the phone call, my parents explained the kids situation. It was likely a short term thing. There was some sort of trial taking place I think. The mother was being evaluated. It seemed the boy was experiencing more difficulty than his sister. Family services decided it was best to take them both out. The girl was my age. The boy was four years older, my two brothers’ age. I was never pleased when we took in girls. Nothing personal to them of course, it’s just that I was the only girl in our family, and I liked it that way. My mother was good at getting me to put my preference aside and see that we were doing something good. It was always a family decision. It was understood that it wasn’t just our parents who did foster care. We all did. We all had to agree. This time, there was a small catch. The children were White.
Now we weren’t the Cosby’s or anything, but we were an African American family living in the suburbs. We attended a predominantly Black Methodist church. My brothers went to a private Catholic school, which was predominantly White. At the time, I went a public elementary school. Our lives were quite heterogeneous. Part of our doing foster care was being a good example of a strong Black family. Making sure people knew homes like ours existed. Homes with a great income and a father at home.
That very night, the children arrived. They stood at our door, suitcases beside them, social worker between them. The girl, “K,” had long unkempt hair. The boy, “M,” had a mop top cut. The boy had freckles. This seemed to add to his whiteness. No one in my family had freckles. Fast forward a couple a weeks.
We learned they had lice. We were told not to share combs and brushes. Being that my brothers and I had “black hair,” it was easy to keep such items separate. I remember my mother applying some smelly anti-lice solution to their haire and using a really thin tooth comb. The lice were little tiny bugs, this freaked me out a bit. Young, and naive about lice, I assumed it was “a white thing.” After all, I didn’t know anyone who had lice until I met these kids. It happens just that easy you know. Assumptions. Attributing some “fact” to an entire race of people. It was a form of childish math. To over simplify it, imagine my unconscious thought process of “I’m black. I don’t have lice. My brothers and cousins are black. They’ve never had lice. These kids have lice. They’re white. This equals White kids get lice.”
The differences added up. My mother hadn’t done white girls hair. She had to learn. My father often cut my brothers’ hair with electric clippers. That wouldn’t work for “M.” Luckily white salons take both male and female so that was two birds with one stone. They used different products for their hair. All completely different. Different combs, brushes, shampoos, conditioners, gels, sprays. I remember their hair being everywhere. Now I’m sure we shed just as much, but the mere difference in hair length made it seem like they were constantly loosing their hair. I was pulling long brown hairs from my sweaters. Their hair clogged the sink. To me, as a child, it was a white things of theirs. I know now that had their haire been as short as ours, it would have been an equal playing field.
Within the first weeks I also learned that the boy thought we had tails. In hindsight, his belief was quite strange. I don’t know who told him that Black people have tails, but somehow, that’s what he thought. Then he learned we didn’t. Oddly enough, it was just information to him. I don’t remember there being anything malicious about it. It was just “Oh you don’t have tails.” We moved on. The boy, “M,” liked to hang out with my father. Typical kids that my brothers and I were, we knew there was nothing cool about my father and we acted accordingly. “M” would go with to Home Depot. He would go with him to the post office. At the time, I had no idea how much it must of meant to him to have a healthy male father figure.
Fast forward to Thanksgiving. By this time, the children have attended church with us, and we’re getting used to each other. It’s our first holiday. We had the preacher and his wife over. This was a big deal. All the food was out. Turkey. Stuffing. Ham. Yams (Sweet Potatoes). Collard greens. Pie and cobbler and more. All of us filled our plates and sat down. Prayer was said to bless the meal. We began to eat, then it happened. A mistake. A White mistake. “M” asked for ketchup. There was none out on the table. He got some from the kitchen. He proceeded to put ketchup on the stuffing. The preacher’s wife’s stuffing! Ketchup! He had no idea what he had done. No idea the insult he had just committed against this woman’s cooking. Don’t worry. We all forgave him. It was funny. Just one of those things. He grew up putting ketchup on his eggs. Weird. Of course it’s weird to me because I grew up watching people put Tabasco on theirs.
I hope to write more about these children later. The girl went back to her mother. The brother ended up emancipating himself. He never returned to her home. I later learned that his babysitter was suspected of abusing him. It is rumored that he fathered a child of hers. I can’t imagine the impact. We grew to enjoy having them in our house. Our annual family Christmas photo sums it all up. All smiles. Two Black parents, three Black children and two White, and our family dog wearing antlers.
I welcome your thoughts and comments.
Blacker Berry 
